Turn Left
by tsukinoblossom
Summary: Life is a series of missed opportunities; what if John hadn't followed Stamford to Bart's that day?


The air's surprisingly warm for the end of January. John is walking through the park, leaning heavily on his cane - he needs it, sod what Ella says - when he hears someone shouting. John's a fairly common name, he's probably calling someone else.

"John Watson." Oh, no. He's definitely calling John. He stops, turns, waits for the round little man to catch up. He's incredibly familiar, but not immediately identifiable.

He extends his hand. "Mike! Mike Stamford. We were at uni together."

"Yes, sorry, yes. Mike, hello." Of course, Mike. Christ, he's gotten fat.

"Yes, I know, I got fat."

Shit. "No, no."

There's an awkward conversation about John's invalidation, an even more awkward conversation about living quarters.

"Who'd want me for a flatmate?" Limping, PTSD, nightmares. Shit, the nightmares. Nobody could put up with that. The look on Stamford's face is curious - an evasive smirk, the Mona Lisa. "What?"

"You're the second person to say that to me today."

John sighs. "Funny coincidence, that. Anyway, Mike, it was nice running into you but I've got to get going." He stands up, brushing the dirt and debris off his jeans, and limps homeward.

A few minutes later, when Stamford heads into the lab at Bart's, a man looks up at the door expectantly, a strange pang of loss crossing his features when he realises Stamford is alone.

* * *

The next day, John's meanderings have got him as far as Brixton. As he passes a red phone box, the phone inside starts ringing. The noise startles John, he wasn't even aware these things had incoming lines. He stares at it for a moment before moving on. The second time it happens, John's curiosity is piqued. Maybe British Telecom is testing the lines in this area or something. He spends a few seconds studying the second booth, before realising his life must be pathetic if he's got nothing better to do than stare at phone boxes. He squares his shoulders and keeps going.

The third time it happens, John's starting to get nervous. Especially when the phone inside the Chicken Cottage rings as well. One of the employees leans to answer it, and the ringing stops. Vaguely uncomfortable, John hurries his pace and heads for the nearest bus stop.

Somewhere, a man in a very posh suit is muttering some very un-posh things.

* * *

A few hours later, John still doesn't have the heart to return to his depressing little bedsit, but he's gotten tired of aimlessly riding around on the bus, so he hops off on Northumberland street. He ambles a bit, cane steadfast beside him. Suddenly, his stomach makes a very rude noise, and he realises he hasn't eaten anything since breakfast. He scans the street, looking for a place to eat.

There's a decent-looking Italian restaurant there, _Angelo's_. John limps up, peering in the window for a moment. It looks nice inside, but a quick glance over the menu makes it clear that their target audience is not useless, gimpy veterans on Army pensions. His stomach rumbles irritably as John steps away, heading for the nearest cheap chippy he can find.

As he steps away, a man in the restaurant window turns, fixing a pair of intense green-grey eyes on John's retreating form.

* * *

John's not sure where he is at this point - some school building or other, it looks like. The whole area is crawling with panda cars and decorated with flashing lights. Something about the whole situation sets John's teeth on edge. He shouldn't be this excited by a police action. He should keep walking, avoid getting tangled up in whatever's going on. He sinks into the shadow of a tall building nearby, watching from the sidelines. A grey-haired officer keeps trying to comfort a man cutting a tall shape in a billowing coat, draping a ridiculous orange blanket around him. Nearby, some ambulance techs are wheeling a covered form out on a gurney.

John watches for a while, unable to sort out exactly what went down. Probably better that way though, whatever happened here doesn't concern him, and it's probably for the best if he keeps it that way. Frowning, he limps back out to the street, looking for a bus shelter.

* * *

A few days later, John's out for another walk; it's not like he's got anything better to be doing. He's distracted, staring up at the ridiculous glass and steel monstrosity before him. The cane digs heavily into the palm of his hand as he leans on it. There's a huge 42 visible from the inside, and John smiles slightly, finding himself wondering if that's the address or the answer to some great, unanswerable question.

As he's staring, he's knocked forward by a sudden collision against his back. He spins around, a tall man with arresting eyes, a shock of dark curls, and the most obscene cheekbones is standing there, looking miffed. He looks as if he's about to give John a piece of his mind, but something in his face changes when he makes eye contact with John. Is that pity when he notices the cane? No, simply curiosity… Haltingly, he sticks one gloved hand out into the neutral space between them.

"Sorry about that. Sherlock Holmes."

Intrigued, oddly drawn to the strange man, John extends his own hand.

"John. John Watson. Don't worry about it."

* * *

_**A few quick clarifications:**_  
_**The phone was ringing because Mycroft is creepy and omniscient and wanted to harangue John about not living with his brother yet.**_  
_**Sherlock picked the right pill, Hope died because he picked the wrong one.**_  
_**This whole work is basically nonsense and full of holes.**_

_**XD**_


End file.
